Fear of Missing Out
in a deliberate silence, there are no words really,
except those you might expect,
describing what you’re hearing to yourself.
to me they’re describing the winter white noise:
radiators, cars idling outside,
the steady crunch of winter boots
and muffled tires rolling over snow
even a bird huddled against your window
humbled, with something deep inside
compelling her to stay
while the other birds leave
but what then if instinct
can not console the mind?
humans know, all fear is fomo
only what is missed changes
If mind is empty like the sky,
no way to know. No one there to observe.
Still, I’m a channel, receptive. I listen and wake
and walk where it’s safe to walk.
There is no way out but that through which
the fire will push me. The fire is a river
and there is no river without me,
and once I am gone, the fire never was.
Bodies are reference points.
Experiences, not borders.
I’m a dream overtaken, a coastline receding,
unmeasurable. A damsel, inscrutable.
The radiator static rises and falls
as some small torrents reach the shore.
Once everyone is through the trap door, the night will
have its way with you.
It superconducts a cacophony. Alarms, yelps, honking
horns and barking dogs. Garbage cans getting knocked over.
The tumbling rock of night is a broadcast, unhinged from the light.
Nothing else can make sense now but satin & sin.
I feel it before I hear it, and so do you.
Up on the mountain, many years ago,
holding a closed book,
I felt the click (before I heard it).
I felt the travelers pass through.
I organized the shelves and set the table. Many ate.
A cold wind makes the late hours frantic.
But we have nothing to worry about; this life is not ours.